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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939926">Exit Wounds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalreproductions/pseuds/mechanicalreproductions'>mechanicalreproductions</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlast (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, On the Run, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:54:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939926</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalreproductions/pseuds/mechanicalreproductions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles crushes any remaining hope Blake had of  a return to normalcy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blake Langermann/Miles Upshur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Homesick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I will be updating tags as the story goes on, so be warned of all the typical Outlast content warnings. In the words of Red Barrels, "-contains intense violence, gore, graphic sexual content, and strong language. Please enjoy”</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Blake couldn't imagine a sight more draining than that of his own house. After being in recovery for six months- unconscious for at least one of them- the smell of home was no longer familiar to him. He was hit with the feeling of stepping into a hotel room, remote and impersonal. It was dead silent, the air was still, and the afternoon sunlight dimmed by the thick curtains. A thin coating of dust layered the walls and furniture, but otherwise it was rather clean- no smell of rotten food or plants- so he assumed Lynn's parents stepped in to take care of things. His living room seemed much larger than he remembered, though it was likely just the emptiness- the absence of someone else.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Though he may have eventually accepted Lynn's death, it hadn't completely settled that this new emptiness was permanent. As he shut the door behind him, it occurred to him that he'd never lived alone a day in his life. An empty house felt like another planet. He dreaded the silence that was sure to cement itself into his life for good. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder how long I'll last like this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought, then as he continued upstairs added, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, don't think like that. It's too early to start that shit again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He flipped the lightswitch in his bedroom, tossed his bags to the side to deal with later, and collapsed on his bed. The bed he slept in during residential treatment was perfectly comfortable, but it was small, so he reflexively extended his arms at his sides now that he could. While the loneliness was upsetting, the privacy was welcome- contradictory as that might sound. Gone was the vague claustrophobia of his living arrangements, and that was at least something if he were to be optimistic. Admittedly, he was grateful to be allowed out so early, given the amount of both physical and mental damage he had garnered. The toll that Murkoff's technology took on his mind wasn’t something his doctors quite knew what to do about. All they could do was make sure he was able to get out of bed every day and care for himself on a basic level- with medication, of course. They warned him about relapse, and while he was anxious about the possibility, he made himself prepared by expecting it. He wondered what it would even look like for him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake might have laid in bed reflecting for the rest of the day if it weren't for the distinct sound of a door closing that ripped him out from his own head. Quick footsteps sounded after that, causing him to shoot to a sitting position. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Didn’t take long at all for the hallucinations to start up again, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought bitterly, but couldn't shake the </span>
  <em>
    <span>but what if it's not</span>
  </em>
  <span> that followed. Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself to his feet and ventured into the hallway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It appeared empty at first glance. He couldn’t check to see if the state of the doors had been altered. He didn’t know which ones they left open or closed, or if Lynn’s parents or other relatives had indeed been coming and going. Though he was certain he heard something, even if he wasn't about how real that something was. As much as it embarrassed him to do so, he decided he'd look in each room individually.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Behind the closest door- the study- he found nothing out of place. His desktop was appropriately dusty given the time he'd been away, and the folder stuffed with information on the Jane Doe case was still sitting next to it, chewed pen to the side. He remembered, both fondly and sourly, Lynn scolding him for staying up all night working. She never hesitated to voice her displeasure with his sleep schedule. It wasn't always welcome, but he knew she said it because she cared. He wondered if it was a freedom or a burden to no longer have someone to combat his self-destruction. Maybe he should have learned to do it himself by now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head in an attempt to bring himself back to the present, Blake left the study and checked the next door- the guest room. This was one room they rarely used anyway, so it's stillness was expected. It always had that vague musty smell- like someone's grandparents' house, Lynn had described it. Even when they fought at night, neither of them would lay in that bed. The walls were too bare and the sheets were too cold. It was too severe a punishment to inflict on each other or themselves.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The upstairs bathroom was also untouched- at least since he'd been gone, as the mess of makeup on the counter was already there. At this point, it was like God himself was beating him over the head with the constant reminders of his status as a widower. A heavy weight set in his chest as he noticed the lipstick in the shade she put on before they left. There was a cruel irony in how much time and effort she put into this that day, and how insignificant it ended up being.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Though he'd now nearly forgotten why he was pacing around and opening doors, he continued downstairs. The kitchen appeared as he was sure they’d left it, though with any perishable food thrown out. However, as he opened the fridge he noticed a half-empty case of water, which he and Lynn never bought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're mistaken, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he told himself firmly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>No one is breaking into your house to put bottled water in your fridge. Stop being paranoid.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake continued searching for the potentially fictional intruder though, only now he felt almost guilty about it, like he was knowingly indulging his delusions. The living room had already been seen, so he made his way to the downstairs bathroom. Immediately upon opening the door, a jolt of panic shot through him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The air was slightly humid, the mirror still had remnants of fog on its surface, and there were water droplets on the shower wall- it had been used very recently. He felt panic rising, along with the instinct to run and hide or even search for an improvised weapon. He took a deep breath, “Okay. Relax. Just relax. It’s okay. There has to be a reason…” he trailed off. It looked real. It felt real. Then again, he had seen and felt things that seemed very real before, but weren’t. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was an easy conclusion to come to, that offered him some relief. He hadn’t been able to take Lynn off his mind since he stepped foot through the door. Evidence of another living person was a comfort, and though his delusions had never been so kind to him before, that could be an explanation. As it seemed too unlikely for someone with a spare house key to take a shower here the day he came home, he decided he would have to be satisfied with this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake nervously cracked his knuckles, reluctantly closed the bathroom door, and went back out to the living room. He opted to rest on the couch instead of his bed, using the sounds of the T.V. to fill empty space. It was difficult to find something he was actually interested in, though. He definitely didn’t feel like watching the news- he already had too much to grapple with, and his experience in the field told him he likely wouldn’t hear anything pleasant. Six months was enough time to fall behind in the plot of any show he might have previously enjoyed, and he didn’t have the energy to catch up, so that was also off the table. He nearly laughed out loud at the thought of tuning in to the paranormal channel. He settled for a cooking competition. It wasn’t something he was particularly fond of, but it wasn’t so painfully boring that his mind would wander. He and Lynn used to watch this one over wine and popcorn. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She was always so opinionated for someone who hated cooking, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he couldn’t help but smile solemnly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, it wasn’t long at all until he heard the creak of a door again. This time it was more subtle, almost like someone being intentionally quiet. This set him on edge, as it was far removed from the sounds he would remember from his day-to-day life. Without really thinking, he sat upright and called, “Who the fuck is there?” noticing his own voice crack- surely not intimidating to this person, real or otherwise. Obviously receiving no answer- and feeling a bit ashamed of his horror movie antics- he stood. Before going to wander aimlessly again, he stopped to think, and realized that the slightly rusty-sounding creak belonged to the garage door. Clenching his fists, he went to investigate.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Indeed, the door was slightly ajar, as if someone needed to open it but didn’t want to be heard closing it. He wanted to insist to himself that it was just his paranoia, but this was too unlike any hallucination he’d had before. The light at Temple Gate didn’t produce subtle effects like this. This was real.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know someone’s there,” Blake announced with false confidence. He was reminded of their toolbox as he tripped over it, and pulled out a wrench, readying it with trembling hands, “I won’t hurt you… if you just show yourself. I won’t call the cops if you show yourself. Come out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To his alarm, someone obeyed him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Charity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Blake watched in horror as a man rose from the backseat of Lynn's car- the sound of his feet meeting the concrete floor nearly silent, but somehow deafening. Upsetting as his presence was, he didn't look all that threatening- short, slight build, and the wide brown eyes of a deer staring down a pair of headlights. He raised his hands in surrender, and Blake took note of the four fingers on each. This detail persuaded him to keep his promise to not call the police.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Who are you?" he demanded, not yet loosening his grip on the wrench. He wasn't convinced he could actually use it if needed, but it looked like this man sure was. It almost made him feel guilty, despite the context. He'd never had anyone appear so visibly afraid of him. Silence hung between them for a painfully long moment, and the stranger's voice wavered when he finally answered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"My name is Miles… Upshur."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blake threw up his hands impatiently, "Okay, and-?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man- Miles- visibly swallowed, "I didn't mean to… I… I'm… I'm not here to steal anything."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Then what are you here for? I'm not fucking around, man. Start talking."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'll talk, I'll talk," he took a step back, bumping into the car and stumbling slightly, "Look, I'm… I'm a Murkoff survivor like you. Mount Massive?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That name sounded familiar to him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why- at least not while he was still in panic-mode. Still, Miles looked like he was on the brink of tears, so he lowered his weapon, "That doesn't explain why you're in my house."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's a long story."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I've got time."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Miles took a deep breath, hands still in the air now starting to tremble. All things considered, if he were a survivor of something similar, he would feel awful if he didn't at least hear him out. He shook his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> "You can put your hands down. Look- you drink coffee?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"... I guess?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blake gestured for him to follow, tossing the wrench aside- with a sound that made Miles flinch- as he stepped back in the house. He couldn't stop to think about what he was doing, or he would realize how crazy it was that was he doing it. He kept glancing over his shoulder on their way to the kitchen, attempting to formulate an escape plan if things went wrong. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, so I'm not great at running, but I am at hiding. If he attacks me, I can get far enough away from him to hole up somewhere. Then, I can call the cops while he's busy looking for me. Fuck, I should have brought my cell phone with me. Well, let's see, there's a phone in-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped just in time to avoid colliding with the dining table, making his way around it to the cabinets where he thought he remembered keeping the coffee and sugar- and he remembered correctly. He looked back again to see Miles taking a seat at the island, holds folded on the countertop. He couldn't help but stare while their coffee brewed, though Miles seemed to be looking everywhere other than at him- until he spoke up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Have you… heard of the Mount Massive asylum incident?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blake paused to think, "I… uh, I think so? I don't remember any details… just the name, and that Murkoff was attached to some illegal activity going on there. Didn't really surprise me, given their track record…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Miles nodded, "I thought the same thing. I was investigating a tip sent to me about that place when I got caught up in the…" he trailed off, silent for a conspicuously long moment, "... uh... incident."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well, that sucks man, but," Blake poured each mug, stirring a couple spoonfuls of sugar into each and wondering why he bothered to do so, "That doesn't explain why you're in my house."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He handed his impromptu guest his coffee, watching him take a drink while gripping the mug with both shaking hands. He replied, "I… well… I've been being tracked by their… Murkoff's agents for months. They want any survivor out of the picture, anyone who witnessed what they were doing first-hand and walked out with evidence. That group of people consisted of me and the employee who tipped me- until you were found at the site of the Temple Gate massacre."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blake froze up the moment he was situated on the barstool, his mind buffering as he attempted to process this, "So, what are you saying?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I think you're on their shit list, too."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His reply was a knee-jerk reflex, "You've gotta be kidding me. I mean- it's been half a year, there's no way Murkoff is still kicking after all that," he insisted, despite knowing rationally that they- and many corporations like them- have gotten away with worse. He inhaled, his head starting to buzz, "Okay, okay, so… if you wanted to warn me, why not leave me a note? Have you been living here? You're wearing my clothes, for fuck's sake."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well… for a couple of months… yeah," Miles admitted, "I came looking for you as soon as I heard that Murkoff was connected to the massacre… but obviously, you weren't here, so-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"So? You just invited yourself in? How did you even find my address?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Your wife is- was… sorry," he winced at his mistake, "more or less a public figure… and I was a journalist… and you leave your house key under the decorative rocks."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He frowned, annoyed, but he couldn't really argue with any of that, "Alright, why? Why stay here for so long?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Miles' silence did nothing to quell his tension. He avoided eye contact yet again, his gaze falling downward as he took another agonizingly slow drink. Blake refrained from snapping at him. He wanted answers, not to scare him off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I went home at first, but my apartment had been raided. It's not safe there anymore, and motels were starting to get risky too. Legally… I died seven months ago."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His' matter-of-fact delivery of such a heavy statement sent chills through his body, as he wondered how long he'd been unknowingly harboring a man who faked his own death. Regardless of his reasoning, that wasn't something Blake particularly wanted to be involved in himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Miles must have noticed his expression, because he continued, "I haven't done anything illegal- well, aside from this, I guess. I just figured while the place was vacant, I'd… just… lay low here for a while."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"... Why did you hide from me when I got back, then?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Panicked, I guess."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blake scoffed, "Yeah, that makes two of us. Look man, I… I need to think about this," he said, standing and leaving his untouched coffee behind. He didn't need to produce more anxiety than he already had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I understand," Miles' voice was nearly inaudible, making him feel like he'd kicked a dog. He turned and made his way to the living room. He took his place on the couch, where he could clearly see the entry to the kitchen- still of the opinion that he needed to be cautious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The idea of permitting this stranger to stay in his house was laughably ridiculous. Of course, Miles didn't actually ask to stay, but for some ungodly reason the desire to offer him to was present. If he really was a refugee of Murkoff, it would be cruel to send him back out onto the streets knowing what they were capable of. While he wasn't as familiar with Mount Massive, the technology that produced that light was inconceivable. Poor Miles wouldn't stand a chance by himself. He wondered how he had so far.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blake distinctly remembered a certain someone taking a risk to shelter him while he was knee-deep in danger at Temple Gate, and he wondered if part of this feeling was the urge to pay it forward. However, he also remembered that someone paying for his charity with his life, and it wasn't outrageous to consider the same might happen to him. At this point, though, was this life really worth protecting at the expense of others?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head at his own pessimism, he decided he was finished contemplating and approached Miles again before he could talk himself out of this. He was still slumped over the island counter, tapping his single pointer finger against the surface. Blake sighed, "Alright. You can stay for a while."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What?" his eyes widened as he turned to face him, "No way, I can't-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm not gonna let you risk your ass out there," Blake insisted, "but I hope you're ready to answer a lot more questions."</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>if you're enjoying it, let me know! i'd love to  continue updating this regularly if people are interested :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Phantom Stigmata</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Miles didn’t have much more to say. Any further questions were met with complete non-answers. Miles didn’t know much about Murkoff that wasn’t already public knowledge, and he’d lost any evidence he collected in a skirmish that has since escaped him- despite the fact that he seemed convinced Murkoff was after him because of said evidence. His story was full of contradictions, but it seemed to Blake like that was the result of someone who was confused and not someone who was lying. In fact, when he holed up in his bedroom with his laptop to do his own research, he found that a man by the name of Miles Upshur had indeed gone missing after receiving a tip about Mount Massive. Information on the event was vague, and the legal action taken against Murkoff even more so- though the case appeared to be ongoing. He was disappointed by the lack of success in his digging, but it made sense. Besides, if their experiences were anything alike, it was no surprise that Miles had trouble remembering details.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, when he looked up his own name, the results were even less helpful. The line of factories that he was told were the cause of his turmoil made obvious links to Murkoff, but apparently no one was quite sure how their technology worked. Aside from that, the sources he found were also full of half-truths and some outright lies. They all seemed to have been told that Lynn died in the helicopter crash, and that he himself was hospitalized after sustaining brain damage. He wished it had been that simple.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took a small amount of comfort, though, in the fact that he was hardly mentioned at all. He was ‘Lynn Langermann’s husband’, he was secondary to her and she was secondary to the cult- the main focus of the case. This didn’t align with Miles’ claims that he was being actively hunted. He was starting to believe that this man really was just paranoid. No one could blame him for that after whatever that asylum had done to him, but regardless he was now inclined to regard his warnings with skepticism.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite the fraction of his anxiety this alleviated, sleep still wasn’t plausible while a stranger was staying in his house. He decided to move from his bedroom to his study, spending his night stitching together all the information he could find until their two stories resembled something like coherency. He only left once for a four pack of energy drinks- which he consumed all in the span of about twelve hours, much to his regret- and saw Miles sleeping on the couch as he came and went. At least he was comfortable- or exhausted enough to pass out anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At some point around four in the morning, Blake blinked and found it was now seven. A raw, plasticy indent had made a place on his cheek, as he must have laid his head against the folder on his desk- information on the Jane Doe case that was now long outdated. For reasons he didn’t care to examine, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out. He attempted to shake the remaining sleep out of his head, and went down to check on Miles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first thing he heard was the sink running, and he found Miles had beaten him to the coffee maker this time. Catching Blake out of the corner of his eye, he nearly jumped out of his skin, “Fuck, you scared me. Sorry, I probably should have asked, but-”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You’re fine. Sleep well? You know, you can use the guest room.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“That’s alright,” he opened the lid and poured the carafe of water in, “No offence, but it kinda smells like… old people in there.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Ha, so I’ve heard.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the silence that followed, Blake wondered if he should tell Miles about his findings- that it really didn’t seem like they were in danger at all. He didn’t want to accuse him of being delusional of course, but he was unsure how to approach the subject with delicacy. Before he had to think too hard, though, Miles spoke again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I cleaned out your fridge while you were gone. Didn’t want anything to go rotten. I haven’t really stocked up again, though, in case I had to leave for any reason. There are some non-perishables- canned soup and stuff like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nice of you,” Blake pushed up his glasses to rub at his dry eyes, “Right… I might as well go out for groceries while it’s early. Any suggestions?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The corner of Miles’ mouth twitched, but his voice remained stoic, "I'm not picky."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Cool. I'll see you in a few," he nodded as he turned away again. It was alarming, the level of casual familiarity he spoke to this strange man with. He wondered if he was still just processing the situation, and would come to his senses about this at some point. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moment his foot met the other side of the doorway, he was startled by a man with a hat  across the street who appeared to be staring at him with a focused intensity.He walked off in the opposite direction as soon as they met eyes, and Blake exhaled deeply. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What are you worried about, that there are other people outside at the same time as you? </span>
  </em>
  <span>he scolded himself bitterly. Still, he stepped back inside to make sure the door was locked before heading to his car and braving his errand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His preferred grocery store felt both routine and completely alien. The smell was all wrong. He was probably too used to the over-sanitized smell of the hospital, and now every natural scent seemed out of place. He picked out a cart, gripping it unusually tight as he headed in. He should have made a list, but being as weary as he was, he really didn't want to spend a lot of time here. He would just grab the basics- milk, eggs, some sandwich ingredients, maybe even some vegetables. He tried to remember which ones he liked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to recall where anything was. It had been a long time, but not that long, and he’d been coming here every week for upwards of ten years. Before his hospitalization, he could have navigated these aisles with his eyes closed. Maybe they moved things around. That was possible- but would they really change things this much? The creaking wheels of his cart were beginning to grate on him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stopping to recalibrate himself, he took a look at his surroundings. He was standing in what appeared to be the bulk aisle, given the abnormally large containers of things like mayonnaise, peanut butter, and olive oil in generic brands. He got a strange feeling, his chest tightening and heartbeat quickening, like he was somewhere he shouldn't be. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He was just tired. This is what he got for staying up all night. He used to get confused and anxious when he was sleep-deprived even before all this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>However, when he opened his eyes again his anxiety was legitimized as he was struck by the smell of rotting wood- then overtaken by the more distant yet more powerful smell of rotting viscera. There was no longer a grocery store around him,  just a cramped, insect-infested pantry. People screamed in either rage or agony- likely a mix of both- somewhere outside. Panic surged through him like an electric shock as he remembered that if he didn’t move quickly, he’d die. He had no time to stop and wonder how he was brought back to Temple Gate, he knew he was in real danger. He had to find somewhere to hide- no, there was no time for that, he had to find Lynn before these people did the unthinkable to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bolted to the screen door at the other end of the room and pushed it open, tripping over his feet and landing with his hands and knees against the concrete- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wait? Concrete? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He pulled himself to his feet and took in the sight of the back of the grocery store. He was still here. Of course, he was still here, he never left. Though if that were true, why were his hands still dressed in bloody bandages? No matter how hard he tried to shake himself back to reality, they were still there, aching painfully. He could still hear screaming too- no, that wasn't screaming, it was a fire alarm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I opened the fire exit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he realized as he noticed the few other shoppers examining their surroundings in apparent confusion. One made eye contact with him, and he felt shame so hot and intense all he could do was turn and retreat back to his car.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no way Blake could drive in this state, so he just rested his head against the steering wheel and tried to steady his breathing. He wasn’t sure whether he was about to cry or vomit, and his hands still stung and burned with all the sensations of when the wounds were fresh. He didn't dare remove the bandages to look closer. They weren't real- they couldn't be- but he was still wholly convinced he'd bleed out. He smelled his own blood pooling to the surface, and felt the disgusting, warm wetness of it seeping down his arm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he finally felt ready- or at least, reasonably convinced he could make it home without crashing- he took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. He was grateful his house was so close to this store, the sensation of the wheel rubbing against his palms nearly unbearable. He turned on the radio, but it didn't drown out his thoughts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can't be drawing attention to myself by acting like a fucking lunatic in public. Okay, okay, that's not fair. It's a flashback. It's happened before, and all the doctors said it would likely happen again. I need to get a regular therapist. Did I take my pills this morning? God, how could I forget something that important? Maybe I should take all of them next time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew he couldn’t think like that, but he was feeling too many things at once to bother correcting himself again. On that note, he pulled back into his driveway and pathetically fumbled with his keys in his attempt to unlock the door. The man in the hat was across the street again, though this time he found he bore an uncanny resemblance to a farmer he’d grappled with at Temple Gate. He should have guessed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Upon successful entry back into his house, he stepped into the kitchen and greeted Miles with, “Hope you like canned soup.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Christ, what happened? You look-”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Like shit, I know. The- the store was busy, I’ll go back later. Maybe tomorrow,” he heard his own voice crack as he lied.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What… happened to your hands?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blake gasped sharply at the realization that Miles could see it too, but when he turned his hands over to check he found they were absent from bandages. His palms were red and scuffed, only a hint of blood at their surface. He felt unbelievably stupid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I… tripped," he answered half-truthfully, turning to the sink to wash off the remaining dirt and gravel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Blake, did-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No, it's fine. It's fine," he repeated. He almost told him about the person he saw outside, but given their resemblance to the farmers at Temple Gate it was probably just another hallucination- no, it definitely was. Miles didn't need to know about that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah… okay. You should probably sleep or something. Your eyes are bright red.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I doubt I'll be able to."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It’s not gonna help anything for you to burn yourself out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He groaned in frustration, “Yeah, you’re right… I guess I should lay down at least. Uh… well… make yourself at home.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You’re funny. Sweet dreams, man.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Lavender</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>St. Sybil had always used a lavender carpet cleaner in the music room, and ever since his childhood Blake associated this scent that was ironically meant to be calming with pain- with the invasive sensation of hands and tongues and the permeating stench of sex and death. The smell of that much hated flower thrust itself through his sinuses yet again as he found himself standing in the empty hallway. It was cold- of course it was cold, it was the dead of winter after all- and endlessly dark. The melody of her music box played faintly in the far distance. This wasn’t another hallucination- he knew that because the blurry filter of dream distorted his view, though he couldn’t hold that knowledge for more than a second. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A sickeningly familiar scream pierced his eardrums, and on instinct he ran in its direction. His legs couldn’t carry him very fast, and he felt like he was slowly sinking into quicksand the longer the screaming went on and the more shrill it became. If he could only make it to the stairwell, maybe something different might happen this time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once running had become impossibly heavy, he sank to his hands and knees. When his hands met the cold, hard floor, he found them seeped in fresh blood. He forced himself to look up at the body it had been drained from, realized he was too late again. Still, he held the fragile, broken child in his arms, silently begging for forgiveness as his throat was too tight to speak aloud. That tightness worsened when her hand shot out to grip his uniform’s tie, strangling him with a force that would be impossible for any child. She hissed with an anger that matched said force, “You should have loved me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake dropped the body as soon as she went slack again, falling backwards and gasping for air. Jessica- no, it was Lynn- Lynn caked in dirt and the blood of both her own and others, let out a powerless final breath. Though the cries for help had subsided, they’d been replaced by the wailing of a newborn. He didn’t look for it. He didn’t want to see it. He simply squeezed his eyes shut until it faded away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pried his eyes back open to sunlight. His bedside clock claimed it was only six- did he sleep an entire day? He took a trembling breath as he tried to recover from his nightmare. It was the norm by now, but he never quite got used to it. He could still feel the sort of static of the dreamlike state, like tiny bugs crawling on his skin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He knew he should have sought out help for these dreams a long time ago- as they were a recurrence long before Temple Gate, that experience only irritated his pre-existing wounds. This new trauma melted with his old to form a disgusting commixture, a beast more brutal than ever before. He held a hand up in front of his face to block the bright light, and the sun shone a spotlight on the dark, jagged ovals right in the center. He imagined those ugly scars were still open, imagined the light falling through them like they were made of tissue paper.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Fuck," he muttered out loud, if only for the sake of hearing his own voice to ground him back in reality. He pulled himself to a sitting position with far more effort than it should take, feeling like he was dragging a corpse, and decided to go see what Miles was up to.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake climbed out of bed and dug around in his bags for the medication he was given, somewhat grateful for the harsh reminder to take it. After swallowing a couple of pills dry, he stepped into the hallway, finding the door to his study open and Miles tapping away on his computer. He peered over his shoulder, as Miles stretched his arms behind his back, yelping as he accidently bumped into Blake.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You've gotta stop sneaking up on me, man. I hope you don't mind, but I went ahead and took a look at these notes you had up- that's all I looked at."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He felt almost amused by his defensiveness, joking, "Thank god you didn't find the porn collection. Uh, anyway Miles, I was meaning to ask…"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ignoring him, Miles continued, "I saw you don't have much on the court case itself, so I was doing some research. Not that it's been doing me any good, since everything's so under wraps. It's like-"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, that's what I was saying," Blake took a deep breath, already feeling guilty for what he was about to say, "Why exactly do you think we're in danger?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Miles was silent for a moment as Blake tried and failed to read his expression, "Well… like I said, my apartment has clearly been broken into and torn apart. Someone's looking for me."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Is that all?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"What the fuck do you mean 'is that all?'"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Miles-" Blake stopped himself, not wanting to get worked up and risk saying something more insensitive than he already was, "I'm just trying to understand. If survivors are in so much danger, why do you think my house is any safer than yours?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This time he didn't respond at all, so Blake continued, "Look… whatever the fuck happened at that asylum must have taken a toll on you. I get that. I think maybe we should get you to a hospital."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not crazy."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think you are!" he insisted, "At this point though, you're either hiding something or you're not thinking straight."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Un-fucking-believable," Miles shook his head, standing up, "You're the one who wanted me to stay here, not me. I'll gladly leave if that's what you want."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It's not! I'm not trying to get rid of you, I'm just- I just don't think it's good for you to keep running."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Miles opened his mouth to say more- likely nothing nice if the look on his face was anything to go off of- but was cut off by something unseen  as he buried his face in his hands with a pained groan. Shocked, Blake took a couple steps back, hands raised in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Woah, are you…" he started, but before he could ask, Miles bolted past him, knocking into his shoulder. He stood still, trying to process what had just happened while he listened to Miles' footsteps hurrying downstairs. It took a long moment to build up the courage to go find him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you see that?” Miles asked frantically as Blake discovered him standing at the living room window. He cautiously approached, fists clenched to try and stop his hands from shaking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No? What am I supposed to be…?” Blake peered out, looking for what Miles might possibly be referring to, but seeing nothing of interest at first. Upon closer inspection he found that- no, he actually saw a man in a hat staring in from across the street. He stood like a statue, Blake being unable to see him so much as blink or breathe. It was the same man he saw yesterday, but Miles was seeing him too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s… probably just a neighbor,” Blake said, though with uncertainty that Miles could surely hear. He saw that it was, in fact, the face of a villager from Temple Gate. It was one that was hard to forget, with a deep gash in his cheek revealing rows of crooked teeth. Surely though, this detail must have been something he was fabricating. Everyone at Temple Gate had died, he was sure of it. Even if they hadn’t, there was no way some malnourished cutlist could follow him across the country and even go as far to wait for him to be released from hospitalization. Though he'd long since expanded his idea of what was possible, this simply wasn't.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Get your camera.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“What?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“A camera, you have to have a camera,” Miles repeated, somewhere between irritated and panicked, “You’re a fucking cameraman, right?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Alright, alright! Fucking relax, I’ll get a camera,” Blake said, though the urgency in Miles’ voice prompted him to hurry. He obviously didn’t have his normal camcorder anymore, but he remembered a spare he kept in his bedroom. As he sprinted up to dig for it, he considered simply hiding up here from whatever danger Miles could see but he couldn't.</span>
  <span></span>
    <br/>
  
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Discarding the cowardly thought, he grabbed the camcorder and made his way back down. He gingerly handed it to Miles, who took it wordlessly and pointed it at the man, who still stared at them with a paralyzing intensity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Miles, what-"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Look," he clicked the night-vision on and gestured at the screen. Blake heard himself audibly gasp as he noticed what Miles was trying to show him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was a fuzzy black aura almost like a swarm of flies surrounding the figure, and though he had no idea what that could mean, he knew it couldn’t be good- and Miles' reaction only confirmed that, his hands trembling as he gripped the camera with a white-knuckled force.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"What… the fuck are we looking at?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before Miles could answer, the man outside collapsed, the aura dissipating. Blake became lightheaded as his panic rose, seeing Miles' mouth moving but finding he was unable to hear his words. Miles grabbed his upper arms hard as if to stop him from falling as his vision blurred and dimmed. The last thing he remembered before he was out was smelling lavender.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry this one took so long (and is also so short lol) i've had a lot going on lately. still, if you enjoyed it, please let me know! thank you :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Cracked Lens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just a quick note, i will be referencing the murkoff account comics starting now. while i will only be very loosely following the canon of the comics, some details might be a tad confusing at first if you aren't familiar with them. however, they shouldn't be necessary to understand this fic!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Blake was startled by the sound of the camera hitting the floor, distinctly hearing the cracking of glass in the metallic thud. His vision slowly focused as he scrambled to identify his surroundings- and quickly realized that he hadn’t moved from the hallway by the front door. He then suddenly noticed that Miles was the only force keeping him from colliding with the ground, gripping his biceps so hard he could feel them starting to bruise. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the remaining mental fog.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh fuck, I'm sorry." Miles' eyes were wide, his voice breaking slightly, "I had to catch you or the camera, and it-"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Did I pass out?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Just for a couple seconds. Look," he took a shaky breath, letting go of Blake's arms as he regained his footing, "I'm gonna go investigate. It looks like the swarm is gone, so it should be safe. You should… lie down or something."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He blinked, head pounding as he tried to process what was being said to him, "Swarm? No, no, I- I'm coming with you."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I really think you should try and calm down,” Miles insisted again. Ignoring him completely, Blake slammed open the front door and rushed to where the figure had collapsed- or rather, where he thought it had collapsed, as he found the area completely empty with the only indication of the man’s presence being a patch of grass flattened against the ground. There was no sign of either a human body or the 'swarm' he’d seen surrounding it. He looked back over his shoulder at Miles, who had just caught up with him, and was wearing an equally bewildered expression. A couple of neighbors peered from their windows at the two of them standing on someone else’s front lawn, scanning their surroundings frantically like a couple of lunatics. The shame Blake felt at the grocery store was creeping up on him again, but it didn’t overtake him because this time he knew he wasn't alone in what he saw.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I- I don't- I don't understand. You saw the man in the hat too- right?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I-" Miles started, then paused, "No, I didn't see any man, I saw- forget it. We can talk inside. People are staring."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. Okay," Blake was too dizzy to argue as he followed the near-stranger back into his own house. Just like before, the line between hallucination and reality was blurred. He prayed this was just another nightmare, but ultimately knew better. He still clearly felt his arms ache where Miles had caught him, still walked past the broken camera on the floor as they made their way into the living room, and still felt the threat of unconsciousness looming over him again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You okay?" Miles broke the silence. Blake didn't respond at first- as he barely registered the question- and Miles continued in a slightly smaller voice, "I'm sorry for freaking out on you. I'm just panicking, it's not your fault."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shook his head, wondering how he could think to apologize over something as trivial as shouting at him during a moment like this, "Miles- what the fuck was that thing?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It's… it's hard to explain. I don't really understand it myself, it's," Miles exhaled, running a four-fingered hand back through his hair, "it came from the asylum. They call it the Walrider."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay… go on." Blake took a seat on the armchair, now certain he would faint again if he didn’t. There was a strange ringing in his ears that felt almost familiar, though he didn’t think he ever had an issue with that sort of thing before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It's made of nanites- like microscopic robots. They- Murkoff- were gonna sell it to the government as a weapon of war or some shit. That’s why they were conducting all those human experiments- to make a host for it."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"A host?" he repeated, "What- does it fucking possess people or something?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Not exactly."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"And what the hell is it doing here?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I have no fucking clue. The last I remember seeing it, it was…" he paused, averting his eyes and nervously scratching the back of his hand, "... it was chasing me down in the lab. I really can't remember anything more specific than that. I don't know how it got here… or what it wants."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake opened his mouth to fire off more of the many questions he had, but noticed Miles' hands trembling and his chest heaving as if he were consciously trying to remember to breathe. Feeling a pang of guilt for interrogating him so harshly, he said, "Alright, I think I get it. Do you think it would be… after you somehow?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know. I don't know," he shook his head, "Fuck, maybe that's what trashed my apartment. Maybe that's what's been following me, but I haven't seen… If that's the case, it's never come that close."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake sighed, resting his head against the back of the couch in exasperation. What Miles was saying was almost laughably insane. It sounded more like a demonic possession than a weapon of war. Still, he'd learned through his experience at Temple Gate to expand his definition of what was possible. He saw the swarm. Miles saw something else attached to it, but they both saw the swarm. They both saw it vanish. Some part of this was real. He closed his eyes as he tried to collect his thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So what now? We can't just… call the cops or some shit. Nothing online about Murkoff or the asylum even remotely mentions this Walrider thing. We have no proof. Not to mention I spent the last six months in a fucking mental hospital…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Miles nodded, staring out the window where the entity once was for a long moment. Just as Blake was about to speak up again, his eyes suddenly widened, "Waylon Park."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Who?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"The employee that contacted me for help,” Miles stood hastily, “I can't guarantee he'd know what to do, but I watched his exposè and I know he saw that thing too. I saw him…  collecting documents. He might have information."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Wouldn't he have published it with his exposé, if he did?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know. Maybe he only had time to upload the footage. He and his family went missing right after he released his leak, probably on the run.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay… then how are we gonna find him?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another pause, followed by yet another, "I don't know. I'll go borrow your study to see if I can find anything online."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before Blake had the chance to either argue or ask any more questions, Miles paced upstairs. He stood and followed, still uncomfortably lightheaded, and went into his bedroom as Miles disappeared into the room across the hall. He pulled out his laptop from under the bed and hurriedly searched the name Miles mentioned- Waylon Park. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Immediately, the screen filled with links to articles debating the legitimacy of his exposè- the search engine even autofilling the word 'scam' after 'mount massive waylon park'. He had to venture to the second results page to even find the leak itself, building the uncertainty he already had about this lead. His worry was legitimized when he scrolled through his backlog, his jaw dropping as he tried to wrap his head around what he was seeing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>THE TRUTH IS HERE, BY WAYLON PARK. OWL SOCIETY'S RACIST BATTLE AGAINST WHITE CHIROPRACTORS. YOU CANN'T SEE THE TRUTH IF YOU DRINK FLORIDED WATER. YOU CANNOT SEE THE TRUTH IF YOU'VE BEEN WILFULY VACCSINATED. SHEEPLE RAYS UP AND CLENSE YOUR BODY OF THE TOXINS CLOUDING YOUR BRAIN EYE.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh, Miles-" he called out, "I think you should come take a look at this."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He heard the sound of the door opening, followed shortly by Miles approaching, hovering stiffly in the doorway like he was a vampire who needed to be invited in first, "Yeah? What is it?" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake gestured at the laptop, and Miles took a seat next to him on the bed. He watched his concerned expression morph into something like disgust, his nose wrinkling as his eyes remained glued to the page. There were dozens of similar paragraphs below it, seemingly becoming less comprehensible with time. He watched Miles scroll faster, as if simply trying to gauge how deep this hole was.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"... Okay, I know how this looks, but-""</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"This guy is fucking crazy!” Blake exclaimed, “Nevermind if he’s even still alive- can we trust him for anything?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"There's no way in hell he wrote this." Miles took the computer off of his lap, scrolling back to the top, "He has video evidence of what was happening at Mount Massive. Some dude who can barely string together a coherent sentence would never be able to fake something so elaborate. Do you want to watch it together- because I'm pretty fucking certain you don't."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake shook his head, figuring he was probably right- no matter how sceptical he still was, "Fine. How the fuck do you explain this, then?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Obviously someone set out to discredit him. They were clearly pretty successful too, given how hard it is to even find his leak. Believe me, Blake, if there's anyone out there who would have legitimate information on this thing, it's Park."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay… okay. I’m gonna take your word for it. Even so, we still don’t know where he is."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I have an idea. I found the address to his house- burned to the fucking ground, but we may be able to find something helpful."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't think evidence would have been seized by authorities or Murkoff agents?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It's worth a shot. Even professionals make mistakes, overlook things. His old house is in Leadville, maybe a day or two away by car. What do you think?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Miles must have seen the incredulous look on Blake's face, because he added, "I can go by bus. You just got home after all, I wouldn't blame you for wanting to sit out another fun little adventure. I'd just… keep an eye out for that thing."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blake didn't answer right away, setting his laptop down and taking in the sight of the room yet again, wondering why what Miles was suggesting sounded so unappealing.. He imagined that staying home and letting Miles be the only one to get his hands dirty would only make him feel worse about everything- or maybe he was afraid of that crushing loneliness he felt the few minutes before he discovered Miles returning once he was gone. He was away for half a year- not that long at all in the big picture- but this house simply no longer felt like his home. It was just a building that held painful memories around every corner. Maybe there was simply nothing here for him anymore.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We can take my car."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you-"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sure. A day or two, yeah? That’s nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Miles nodded slowly, the most subtle hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips,  "Alright. Better get packing, then."</span>
</p>
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